


Stark's Moving Castle

by OneshotPrincess



Category: Howl's Moving Castle - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Relationship, Gen, M/M, tiny fic I wrote to get me going
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 15:47:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4227660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneshotPrincess/pseuds/OneshotPrincess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers, as a man of principle, did not believe in grumbling. He believed in hard work and paying your dues and taking whatever life threw at you with your head held high. However, when one found themselves cursed to have the body of a ninety year old, working as the cleaning man of an overly vain, heartless, man-child of a wizard who was prone to violent tantrums that left the walls oozing with green slime…well Steve figured he could be excused for grumbling just this once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stark's Moving Castle

**Author's Note:**

> I saw this post on tumblr about a Howl's Moving Castle au and well, I couldn't resist. It was pretty quickly written and very choppy but I just wanted to get the idea out of my head.

****

Steve Rogers, as a man of principle, did not believe in grumbling. He believed in hard work and paying your dues and taking whatever life threw at you with your head held high. He had the sort of morals that made others roll their eyes or snort; the sort of morals that just invited mockery. As if that would ever be enough to deter Steve. He stuck to what he believed in like glue to paper.

However, when one found themselves cursed to have the body of a ninety year old, working as the cleaning man of an overly vain, heartless, man-child of a wizard who was prone to violent tantrums that left the walls oozing with green slime…well Steve figured he could be excused for grumbling just this once.   

Steve gave pause to his violent attack on the slick floor to wipe the sweat off his brow. As he did so, he couldn’t help but grimace at the wrinkled skin and knotted veins of his aged hands. Steve had never really been a looker. Before this stupid curse he had been scrawny and short and had looked as if a strong breeze would blow him over. Bucky was the one who attracted all the dames and a fair amount of the fellas too. But that had never really bothered Steve. When the kids at school picked on the rabbits they kept in a hutch in the playground, Steve was still the first one to punch them in the face. When a bunch of rowdy boys at a bar and started getting a little too hands-y with the women, you could bet your gambling money that he would be the first one to say, “Back off!” , never mind the fact that every single one of those men had at least a foot on him. And, of course, then Bucky and Sam would have to come and get him and Steve would have a number of ugly bruises blossoming across his entire body and they would keep telling him to be careful and blah, blah, blah- things he’d heard them say a million times.

Steve absentmindedly turned over his palm and traced the lines there with his other hand. He had to wonder where that Steve Rogers had gone. Somewhere between having to leave school and taking over the family business and sacrificing his dreams, he felt like he’d lost all that fire inside. And if he was being honest with himself, that’s why he was here, alone in this strange moving tower, without telling anyone back home what had happened to him. He wanted to do this by himself. He was tired of leaning on his friends and family, he wanted to fix this one by himself, to figure out what exactly he had lost.

However, breaking this goddamn curse was turning out to be much harder than anticipated. He had never expected it to be easy but still. All he had to go on was his deal with Jarvis the fire demon. Jarvis insisted multiple times that he had indeed dropped hints so as to what the contract between him and the wizard was all about but if he had they had all completely flown over Steve’s head. Perhaps that was more Steve’s fault than Jarvis’. Lately he seemed to be having a little trouble concentrating on his surroundings when that stupid wizard was around. He blamed it on that vain, smug face and that downright sinful smirk and how he could just get under Steve’s skin without even trying or paying any attention to him-

“You missed a spot,” a chirpy voice called from the stairs. Steve’s face automatically contorted into a scowl. Speak of the devil.

“Yes, well,” Steve turned his glare to the man casually leaning on the railings, smirking at him. His hair, the cause of all this drama in the first place, was a bright yellow. Alright so maybe it didn’t quite suit his face but honestly Steve didn’t mind the colour so much. It reminded him a little of his own hair before it had turned grey, which of course made him quite sour at the fact that Tony seemed to mind the colour so much. “If someone hadn’t acted like a complete spoiled brat and overreacted and flooded the whole house with this stinking slime, I wouldn’t have to be doing this in the first place.”

The great wizard Tony Stark seemed to have miraculously gone deaf for the moment. He pretended not to have a word Steve had said and carefully picked his way through the puddles of slime, trying very hard not to get his boots dirty Steve thought bitterly. Quite unfair, really, when Steve’s own trousers were covered with the stuff.

“My hair,” he carefully enunciated each word “is the colour of mouldy butter. Don’t mock my anguish.” Steve bristled and rolled his eyes. How melodramatic.

“Where’s Peter?” Tony asked as he reached his work table. Immediately he grabbed hold of one of his strange machines and started fiddling around with it. The strange shape of it reminded Steve strangely of a teapot. One of the very first things Steve had noticed about Tony was that his hands could never stay idle. He was always tinkering with cogs and screws and even his heavy perfumes couldn’t fully mask the scent of grease that hung about him. Steve remembered a couple of travellers at a bar once, loudly discussing how Tony made his machines.

_‘He makes the shell out of metal,’ one had said, ‘and then he breathes his soul into it. And suddenly the metal things start walking and talking just like you and me.’_

_‘You’re wrong,’ another had insisted. ‘Everyone knows Wizard Tony ain’t got no heart. You can’t give life to something when you’re like that.’_

_‘He’s not got a heart but he’s still gotta have a soul right? He’s breathing isn’t he?’ the first one had said._

_‘What’s the difference?’_

What’s the difference? Even Jarvis had insisted once, that Tony Stark didn’t have a heart. Steve thought now as he watched Tony’s deft fingers work. For the life of him he couldn’t remember how that conversation had concluded. To be honest, when he had first walked into this castle he had fully expected Tony Stark’s infamous machines to be cold, heavy and monstrous things. Instead he had been greeted by small chirping motors that moved furniture around and carried trays up and down the stairs, mechanical hands that supplied Jarvis with fuel wood and Tony with tools and Peter with spell books and occasionally attempted to help Steve clean. Machines that Steve was almost certain had emotions judging by the way they whirred and circled around Steve whenever he worked, eager to help in any way they could. Heartless huh…

“Well?” Tony’s fingers stopped working and belatedly Steve realised that he had been staring.

He coughed slightly and ignoring Tony’s impish grin, replied, “He’s gone out to get more bleach. You know,” he added with another forceful glare, “to clean up this mess. That you made.” Tony simply started to hum in response.

 “The least you could do is help out!” Steve burst out, unable to contain himself.

Steve had no doubt that a wizard of Tony’s calibre could simply magic the mess away but for some unfathomable reason, he chose to live in filth. Maybe this was his way of punishing Steve for messing about his potions. Or maybe he was just an ass. Either way, Tony’s hearing seemed to failing him again as he pried open the teapot thing.

Steve huffed and turned back to scrubbing the floor, resolutely refusing to give in to the protests of his aching joints. “Whatever,” he grumbled. “Ignore me. Waste more time playing with your toys.”

“They’re not toys!” Tony’s voice cut across his words sharply. He looked at Steve impassively and Steve wasn’t sure if he was about to throw another one of his tantrums or if Steve had actually managed to genuinely anger the sorcerer. “And I’m hardly wasting time. In case you haven’t noticed, my toys are what buy the bread around.” Steve blinked, a little surprised. He half-expected more sludge to creep down the windows but nothing happened. “Honestly Steve, you wound me. Haven’t you ever been passionate about something? Other than cleaning and sticking your nose in other people’s business that is,” he remarked snidely and Steve swallowed. Tony sighed and dropped the pieces of his machine, massaging his temples.

“I’m usually far more suave than this,” Tony whinged. “What is it about you that’s so amazingly infuriating?”

Was that an apology? Well it was the probably the closest Steve was ever going to get.

“Yeah, bet you just ooze charm and charisma,” Steve snorted. “Too bad that doesn’t work on me.” He couldn’t gauge Tony’s reaction. There was a lot he didn’t know about the man. Of course, he was pretty that there was a lot nobody at all knew. Jarvis seemed to be the closest thing Tony Stark, for all his glamour and allure, had to a friend. And since Jarvis happened to be a fire demon, well, that was just awfully telling wasn’t it? There was a pause before-

“I used to draw,” Steve offered quietly. “I was kinda good at it too.” He wasn’t sure why he had brought it up but it felt like something Tony should know. That Steve hadn’t always been like this, old and cranky and bone-tired all the time.

“Used to?” Although Steve kept his eyes trained on the floor he could hear the curiosity in Tony’s voice.

“Well you know, these aching joints,” Steve smiled a little sadly and wiggled around his fingers for emphasis. “Besides, I don’t have enough supplies for it anyway.” And it was true, Peter was such a studious kid (and any student would have to work a lot if they had someone as scatter-brained as Tony for a teacher) that every notebook was filled with his transcripts and every pencil was reduced to a stub. It was okay though; Steve didn’t feel like drawing nowadays. What good was it going to do him?

Tony looked at Steve curiously. He opened and closed his mouth as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words he was looking for.

“What?” Steve asked, almost self-consciously.

“Nothing,” the wizard shook his head.  “Nothing at all. I just-”

At that moment the door burst and Peter came in, dragging a basket full of shopping. He looked surprised to see Tony up and about. At his entrance, Tony stood up and started bustling around, as if this was the cue he had been looking for. He started giving instructions to Peter about what spells to practice, instructions to Jarvis about how to move the castle and a ten minute lecture to Steve about the importance of not mixing his potions, not touching his things, not killing any spiders in his absence and definitely never, ever causing a catastrophe of this degree ever again-

“You look fine!” Steve snapped. “It’s just your hair!”

“Oh but do you know how much appearances matter in the royal court? I might be fired, I might be run out of the country, and I might-”

“You might be lying, you might waste your time and talents visiting some gal or a lousy bar and you might come back home drunk,” Steve spoke severely while Tony sullenly narrowed his eyes at him. Behind him Peter snickered and even Jarvis crackled with humour.

“I’m leaving,” he announced once more, “to go somewhere I’m truly appreciated.” And with a swish of a cloak, he was gone.

“What a spoiled brat,” he shook his head while Peter got busy unloading the basket. He was just about to start scrubbing again when he noticed that the floor was spotless. Well then. “Guess he can be nice when he wants to be, huh Jarvis?” Steve’s joints cracked as he stood up and kicked the now empty bucket of sludge under the table.

“When he wants to be, yes,” Jarvis agreed in his strange monotone.

“He just never wants to be,” Peter added with a grin which Steve couldn’t help but mirror.

* * *

 

Later that night Steve woke to the creaking of the pipes as the sound of running water came from the upstairs which meant that Tony was finally home from gallivanting around. For a moment, he wondered what had woken him up when the whirring noise to his left caught his attention. All at once he felt his breath leave him. One of the small motors attached to a stool was insistently tapping against his bed. Placed on it were a large sketchbook and a box of pencils. It took Steve sleep-addled brain to grasp the meaning of that. Gently, with trembling fingers, he picked the two items up, only for the small machine to excitedly whir off and circle a spot near the leg of the work table. Steve’s eyes widened.

“Is that paint?” he exclaimed. “But I don’t paint! I mean, I don’t even know how-” He stopped himself short and flipped open the sketchbook, his breathing heavy. He was greeted by white, pristine pages just waiting to be marked. He felt a familiar itch in his fingers to just start doing something, anything. He let out an unsteady laugh.

“This is him apologizing isn’t it?” he shook his head fondly. He wasn’t sure who he was talking to, himself, that tiny excitable instrument or Jarvis. Nevertheless, Jarvis was the one who answered.

“I believe so, Master Rogers.”

“Jarvis?” he asked again after a pause, fingers caressing the paper. “Remember when you told me that he’s pretty heartless? Are you sure about that?”

“Quite certain, Master Rogers,” Jarvis dutifully replied.

Steve made a noise of disagreement.  Somehow, he didn’t think so. He rolled a pencil between his fingers before finally starting to sketch rough lines onto the paper. Somehow he didn’t think so at all.       


End file.
